


Bursts of Light

by holyfant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/pseuds/holyfant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of things about the first, tentative, already long-suffering, limping steps John Watson takes into Sherlock's life that make him stop and wonder at himself for a moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bursts of Light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this kink mem prompt: Sherlock loves to be complimented during sex. When John tells him how beautiful and brilliant he is, Sherlock comes so hard he almost blacks out.  
> Original fill [here.](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/18842.html?thread=113185434#t113185434)  
> 

There are a lot of things about the first, tentative, already long-suffering, limping steps John Watson takes into Sherlock's life that make him stop and wonder at himself for a moment. There's a whole lot of... he doesn't know what else to call it; small shifts of _sentiment_ , and while it's mildly interesting to observe in himself it's far more unsettling.

The unexpected prick of embarrassment when John doesn't realise the mess in 221B Baker Street is Sherlock's. The even more unexpected urgency of his own realisation that it was in all likelihood a bit rude to have moved in without John even having seen the flat. The silent rush of indignation in his gut when John raises his eyebrows in subdued scorn at The Science of Deduction. The secret twinge of satisfaction when Lestrade bounds up the stairs, and John looks at them in wondering curiosity, and his mouth is tense when his eyes follow Sherlock out of the room. The not-so-small, hard-to-define, will-have-to-be-filed-away-for-later-examination spreading of something warm when John says, without hesitation, with an almost military focus on his face, in his eyes that are completely unafraid under Sherlock's gaze, _Oh God yes_. It's almost like John is feeling it too. (And that that should matter is something else to worry about, entirely.)

What takes him off guard most, is before that, even; the breathless moment on the other side of the door at Bart's, where he has to take a small second to collect himself, having surprised himself with the speed and insistence of his deductions about John, because he usually doesn't care enough about strangers who are still alive to show them all of the things he can tell just by looking at them, and the strange, winding way he's gone about talking to the quiet, small doctor – and he realises, a bit belatedly, that he wishes he could see John's expression right now, because it would tell him a lot, and he hopes there's more there than just the mild interest that he already knows will drive John to come to 221B. Then, he shakes his head, puts it behind him without too much difficulty, and goes to the morgue, because he _has_ in fact left his riding crop there, and examines it for a second as though he's never seen it before, thinking about the flash of interest and – indignation? in John's eyes when he mentioned it.

And then, in the cab, the warmth that surged at _ohgodyes_ still sitting somewhere between his third and fourth rib, he can feel the silent waves of wonder that radiate off John, and sighs to himself, because if anything is going to go wrong it might as well happen as soon as possible, so he turns it on, like a switch, and his brain takes him through it all neatly, perfectly, and he sits for a moment, uneasy about the fact that he can't predict John's reaction, which is a bit of a first.

“That,” John says, and later Sherlock might even have to admit to himself that he thinks about this moment a lot, far more than it in all honesty deserves, and that he quite unscientifically thinks that it might have set things in motion, “was amazing.”

The warmth hovering between his third and fourth rib blooms up, and down, and in, and for a second that is without doubt too short for John to spot, but that for Sherlock takes eternities, he almost doesn't remember how to speak. And it's the first laugh John directs at him, small, tempered by strangeness and newness, but he catches it when John turns away his head, and has to look away, too, has to look at the indifference of London flashing past, just to stop himself from pushing it, to try to find more, to prompt that laugh again. The feeling of smugness isn't new, which is just as well, because he'd be entirely out of balance if it was, because it's very _there_ , but the eagerness with which he wants to know if he was right, and the small point of possessiveness when Lestrade looks like he's seriously entertaining the possibility to remove John from the crime scene aren't quite familiar. “He's with me,” he hisses, twice, and doesn't understand the small kind of headiness that comes from John not responding in any way, not protesting, not even bothering to introduce himself to Lestrade properly, as though _he's with me_ is enough.

And then it happens again; “Brilliant,” John says, eyes aglitter with something, and something in Sherlock says _yes_ , something that had apparently been wound rather tight without him realising it, and that is now uncoiling a bit – because it's not new to him, that it's brilliant; _of course_ it's brilliant. But it is new that John says it in that way, not in the dark muttered way that other people usually say it if they even say it at all, the predictable irony that curves over all sorts of boring, petty problems they have with Sherlock being brilliant. John just says, _brilliant_ and in his face there is only open wonder, and he doesn't even try to hide it, and does it again, and then he seems to develop the idea that it might be a bit much and he promises to rein it in, and everything in Sherlock says _oh God no_.

And John doesn't hold back. He pads in on socked feet into Sherlock's life, bringing with him the strange, sometimes baffling mix of shouting in genuine fury at Sherlock for having used the last tea bag while not batting an eye at being woken at four in the morning to go charging after some gangster or other, leaving his terrible jumpers all over the flat, prompting Sherlock to sometimes fist his hands in the materials when John isn't looking, and being careless enough to lose his condoms everywhere whenever he's dating, thankfully not noticing when Sherlock picks them up and puts them in a small jar in his closet (quite aware that it might be a bit strange, but John isn't fooling him; people always seem to think that he's the mad man, but John is absolutely, undeniably bonkers, and for some reason a lot of the things that come naturally to Sherlock and that put everyone else off only draw John in more, so he's decided quite soon that _he_ won't hold anything back, either). John doesn't hold back, letting the words of admiration slip out when they become too big to hold in his mouth, and as they grow into each other, into something that after a while Sherlock starts to feel that even John, with his greater grasp on social interaction, would have trouble putting an accurate label on, he becomes quite attuned to the different flavours of John's on-behalf-of-Sherlock expressions, and while he appreciates the he's-actually-glad-to-see-you-you-know and he-doesn't-mean-it-that-way because they make work easier even if they're not true, he loves yes-he-is-really-that-brilliant, all the more because he catches it sometimes when they haven't had eye contact in a couple of moments, and he's not sure he's actually supposed to see it.

And almost incomprehensibly, he's letting it happen, and only takes small attempts at uncovering its meaning, finding that it's harder than he thought to define, and at the same time very, very simple: he _likes_ it. He likes to have a mirror like John to reflect back to him what is harder to see on his own – that he is, in fact, _right_ and that's worth a lot on its own, and he also likes that John isn't just a mirror, distorts things at times, sends out his own light, supporting Sherlock's, doing his bit, content to never ever stop the _how? how on earth did you know?_ and then making tea and shouting about the final tea bag until Sherlock finds himself sometimes sitting in the arm chair, fingers steepled under his chin, watching John flick through a number of equally infuriating television shows, contemplating not much else than the still baffling complexities of John Watson and how Sherlock can return the favour, really, admiring quite genuinely how John seems to be able to hide from everyone else how fucking insane he is.

When the kiss comes, John will tell him later that it was Sherlock making the move, while Sherlock is privately wholly convinced that it was John. It's wet with Thames water and shot through with lingering adrenalin, and John's lips are hot under the chill of the river. In Sherlock's memory, far superior to John's of course, John looked at him with a wide-eyed liquid intensity and was halfway across the distance between them before something in Sherlock went _ohgodyes_ and he surged forward to meet him in the middle before he even had time to think about it, but John shakes his head from across the breakfast table and tells him that John never moved, that it was all Sherlock, bridging all of the space between them, because John wasn't quite sure it wasn't a hallucination, and he was afraid the apparition would break if he moved. Sherlock lets him have it. He can let him have it, this time. He knows he's right. He knows he was also afraid that it was a hallucination, and that the scratch of John's sodden jumper under his fingers was the only thing that convinced him that it was real.

He can also let John have that he knows more about relationships than Sherlock. It's a bit new, being out of his depth about anything, but as John promised it's all fine, or mostly fine, and they navigate it in the same explosive way that they do everything, and nothing really changes; John still shouts at him about the tea and the heads and the fingers in the biscuit jar, and still doesn't complain when Sherlock suddenly needs him very urgently – though now it's quite convenient that Sherlock can barge in when John is having a shower and tugging him out of it to go chase the tendrils of a trail, and it's even more convenient that he can now say to John “Need you, right now,” and he doesn't have to sigh at the double entendre anymore, because now it sometimes means only one thing, and he can say it from the couch, entirely naked when John comes back from the clinic, and John never disputes its meaning.

Because sex? Sherlock knows about. And he knows about John. Can tell from every little ripple of muscle and twitch of mouth what is happening to John, and where he has to press just a... _little_... harder... to get John's lips to part, and his eyes cloud over, and his fingers to come scrabble at Sherlock's chest.

John loves fucking Sherlock. It's quite a heady sensation to find that Sherlock loves it too; he's never bottomed for anyone before, and though he refuses to treat it like it's the kind of soppy declaration of love that John seems to insist on treating it as, wide-eyed and almost uncomfortably grateful the first time Sherlock lets him, privately he can't dispute that, well, that it is a soppy declaration of love.

But there is so much in it for him, apart from the particular clarity that intense physical pleasure creates in his mind, with which he knows for sure for long, panting moments that there honestly isn't a lot else that he'd rather be doing, because John _talks to him_ through it. He didn't look it during those first shuffling limping steps into Sherlock's life, but John is _loud_ , and he gets louder with every thrust, and Sherlock was the considerate one for once and gave Mrs. Hudson a pair of ear plugs for her birthday last.

It begins with the foul mouth that Sherlock wasn't surprised to find on an ex-soldier with a circle of rugby friends left over from uni. But it changes, and that's when he seriously starts to love it.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John hisses into his ear, as Sherlock impatiently wiggles down on his fingers, because _honestly, John_ , he's so ready for it, he is, after the thrills of the chase and then the not so different thrill of John rubbing up against him in the hallway, already half hard, hissing in his ear – “God, I can't handle it when you pretend to be straight,” and that's the state Sherlock prefers him in, really, possessive, already eager, harshly grabbing Sherlock's bum and bringing their crotches together even before they're in the privacy of 221B, and Sherlock's thought many times that one day they'll just end up having sex standing up in the hallway, hoping Mrs. Hudson won't evict them for it, because they make it inside less and less far, and this time he's steadying himself against the table, shirt only half undone, trousers and pants hanging about his thighs. John is forcing his legs apart with his knees, and Sherlock already knows it'll be uncomfortable to stoop down so their hips will be aligned, but somehow that always works, and he's quite smugly pleased with himself for remembering to put the lube that he's developed himself for them on the table so John can do what he's doing now, sliding his fingers in and out of his arse and scissoring them inside him in _ohfuck_ already, and _notenough_. His cock bounces against his stomach in a slick touch as he jerks a bit when John groans into his ear: “Fucking hell, Sherlock, you're _so tight_ and I only had you yesterday night, fuck, God, fuck,” and Sherlock lets out an almost hiccough of pleasure as John's fingers inside him ghost across his prostate, sparking a particular kind of pleasure that frissons up his spine.

“Do it,” he commands, breathing heavily, curling his hands around the side of the table to steady himself.

John's response is “Fuck, oh God yes,” and his hands pull at Sherlock's hips until they're aligned, and Sherlock looks forward to the twinge in his leg muscles that will remind him of this for the entirety of the rest of the day, but then that is irrelevant because John's cock is pushing into him slickly, and he's not sure how it is that the same sensation can continue to be so interesting, but he gasps at the slight sting, the very small burn that with a bit more preparation wouldn't be there, but that only adds to the straight-forward spear of desire running up his spine.

“Ngggh,” he says when John is fully sheathed inside him and as always, John waits for a moment, dropping a kiss onto his back, trembling together, legs working, his hands coming to rest on Sherlock's hips.

“Come on, come on,” Sherlock says breathlessly, and wiggles his arse, savouring the gasp and the “Oh _fuck_ ,” that slips out of John's mouth.

And he has a moment of clear-headed amusement, even almost snorts, when his chemistry equipment on the table starts to clink rhythmically as John starts to move inside him, small thrusts, then growing bigger, using his hands on Sherlock's hips as leverage – but then the head of John's cock brushes his prostate, and it's not funny anymore, there's only _yes_ and he works with John's rhythm, tilting back into him.

John is breathing out swear words, fingers grasping at his hips in a way that's sure to leave bruises, and Sherlock _loves it_ , and then, there's a stretch of nothing, just of erlenmeyers tinkling and petri dishes being upset in small ticks of plastic, and a hot spear of lust has Sherlock's cock leaking a small burst of pre-come against his stomach in anticipation of what's coming.

“Sherlock,” John moans, words pressing through clenched teeth, “God, I can't – you're so _gorgeous_ , you should see yourself, you should see your arse as I'm fucking you,” and Sherlock can't do anything but whine and then buck almost in surprise at John's hand slipping from his hip, curling around his cock.

“ _Brilliant_ ,” John is saying, breath coming in short, hot heaves, “so fucking _brilliant_ – so amazing, Sherlock, _ah_ ,” and he latches his teeth onto Sherlock's shoulder, fingers slickly stroking Sherlock's cock in a hard, fast, mercifully relentless rhythm.

Sherlock strains against him, pleasure popping in bursts in his consciousness, the counterpointed pressures of John's cock slipping across his prostate at every thrust, now, and John's hand wanking him in the exact same way John knows Sherlock needs by now, and he can hear the noises he's making, but he can't stop them, and he can feel his orgasm building, but he needs something more, and he says, “ _John_ ,” and John understands, because he's John, always John, and he pants, the words hot bursts of breath on Sherlock's shoulder: “You're the – most brilliant man I've – ever met, you don't know how – how fucking gorgeous you are,” and Sherlock is coming, hard, so hard the light in 221B is wiped away, flickering away into darkness even as his eyes are forced open with the hugeness of the pleasure of it, and he can't hear himself anymore, there's only the deluge of pleasure and his breath forgetting to get into his body and John's hands on him and John's _cock_ , spilling hot and liquid inside him, and his legs give out, but John's arms around him are strong even as John trembles through his own orgasm inside him –

And he comes back into himself, his vision returning in bursts of light, and the sensation of John's face pressing into his shoulder, hard, is restored to him, and the slick wetness inside him, trickling out onto his thighs as John wiggles his softening cock out of him with a twinge of residual half-pleasure, half-pain, becomes another point in the chain of things pressing in on him.

“God, Sherlock,” John is saying, and Sherlock blindly gropes next to him until his hand finds the back of a chair, and he sinks down on it, not caring about the come smeared on him, leaking out of him, and takes his head into his hands for a moment, trying to stay on top of the rush of his brain kicking back into gear, frantically trying to catch up to the moments that it was frozen into _yes yes yes John John John_. John sinks to his knees next to him, and he's laughing a bit.

“Are you all right?” he breathes, and nuzzles his face against Sherlock's side.

It takes another moment to get his words back in line. “Yes,” he eventually says, tongue catching on the word.

“Good,” John says, and as his senses return Sherlock can clearly feel the quirk of his mouth into a smile against Sherlock's skin. “You're fucking brilliant,” he then says, and Sherlock feels like laughing, so he does, and then he feels like taking John's face into his hands and pulling him half up on his knees until Sherlock can lean down and kiss him, so he does.

When they break apart, he says, breathing finally settling again: “You're quite adequate yourself,” and receives a half-hearted swat in return.

“It's a good thing you were almost unconscious on this chair, or I might start believing you,” John says, sounding very pleased with himself.

Sherlock can let him have it. “Yes,” he says, eyes closing for just a moment, just a moment, now that his brain is still not quite up to speed, and there is a pleasant calm inside of him, “I do tend to understate things sometimes.”

And John lets his head fall into his lap, sticky, spattered with come, and he doesn't seem to mind. “You marvel,” he breathes, and well, privately Sherlock can't deny that all of this, really, all of this is more of a soppy declaration of love than he'd ever even thought he was capable of, and he slides his fingers through John's hair, short, soft, and allows the seconds, slow, uncomplicated, to slip past them.


End file.
